


See You Again

by EndlessEternity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But we all know it's a lie, F/M, Implied Mary Morstan/John Watson, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, See You Again, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4959907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndlessEternity/pseuds/EndlessEternity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was gone, but that didn't mean that John couldn't tell him about everything that he was missing. He would tell him when they met again someday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	See You Again

**_See You Again_ **

 

_It’s been a long day without you, my friend_

_And I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again_

 

The cold black stone really didn’t do the lanky detective much justice. It was too plain with its white letters scrawled along it, expressing nothing of the character of a man who lay six feet beneath it. Sherlock Holmes. That was it. Hell, it was almost disgraceful in the eyes of the military man who seemed to know him better than even Mycroft.

Speaking of, the auburn haired aristocrat stood off in the distance, respectfully allowing John some privacy to grieve for the late genius. A head of silvery hair slowly approached from among the group of people heading toward the gate of the cemetery, goodbye’s already said. Lestrade allowed a callused hand to lift, resting upon Mycroft’s hip as his arm wrapped around his partner. Their relationship had only recently been revealed to the prying eyes of the public despite how Sherlock had directed accusatory and suggestive statements toward the two whenever one or both of them were around. Alas, the British government and Scotland Yard were joint at the hip no matter what the detective said.

But that didn’t matter to John. None of it did. The only element of the past week that mattered to him was before the doctor, standing testament to a man who had been too full of life to go as he had.

“You bloody git... How dare you leave me now, when I need you most? Who am I supposed to go home to now? Who will tell me to pick up the groceries and ignore me when I roll my eyes?”

He lifted one hand then, knuckle pressing to his chapped lips as his already raspy throat closed briefly when John did his best hold back a quiet sob. Military men, still active or not, did not cry in front of their fallen friends, it wasn’t right. Didn’t show a proper amount of respect.

“I’m gonna tell you about all of the things I do without you, yeah? You’ll have a lot to catch up on by the time I join you. Unless...Unless you can work one more miracle for me. Please Sherlock, for me. Don’t be dead. Would you do that? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this. I...I love you...”

 

_I know we loved to hit the road and laugh_

_But something told me that it wouldn’t last_

 

That night, the ashen blonde man dreamt of him, of those tousled curls and wicked smirk which made his eyes glitter. They had been like ice covered corn flowers, shining and full of life beneath the freezing exterior. It was the first case that the two men worked together actually, the one that brought them into each other’s lives for the years to come. Shooting a man wasn’t a concept that John was altogether ignorant of in study or practice but it was one hell of a way to begin a friendship. Really the only difference between the military and what he had done was that, instead of the familiar uniform, he had been tossing around the idea of a cozy jumper that day but decided on a button down.

In the dream, though it was more a memory, a tall figure with an orange blanket draped over his shoulders approached the smaller man with an easy, rolling gait that spoke of confidence in both his mind and body.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock didn’t sound like a man who had nearly died but a half hour before, instead that deep voice was perfectly calm, if not a little playful.

John kept up his innocent facade even as he gazed into the azure depths of the detective’s eyes, momentarily losing his voice before answering flippantly.

“Yes of course I am.”

“Well you have just killed a man.” It wasn’t an accusation but a fact rather that left no room for arguing, even if John knew that any argument would have been mowed down by a long list of deductions.

“Yes I...” The shorter of the two paused for a moment as though to consider his actions throughout the night. It had been exhilarating and dangerous and the most alive he had felt since leaving the military. “That’s true isn’t it? But he wasn’t a very nice man.”

At that the youngest Holmes snorted, closing his eyes briefly as he hid a smile. They were still a little too close to the crime scene for such expressions. Another hundred meters should be enough to not arouse suspicion. “No, no, he really wasn’t was he?”

“And frankly, a bloody awful cabbie.”

“That’s true, he was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here,” Sherlock remarked, snickering quietly as the two men quickened their pace in an attempt to make it seem as though they weren’t trying to flee the scene of a crime. Greg could see them though, heads ducked together as if they were sharing the secrets of the world with one another.

At the comment the older man scoffed and then dissolved into a fit of laughter himself, the porcelain skinned creature alongside him mirroring the action even as John knocked him in the ribs with his elbow. “Stop. Stop! We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene! Stop it!”

Then, with the meeting of another Holmes, the two companions were on their way to supper with the promise of Chinese food causing their stomachs to rumble softly. Ah yes, Sherlock and John were going to have a wonderful friendship in the years to come.

 

_And what’s small turn to friendship_

_A friendship turn to a bond_

_And that bond will never be broken_

_The love will never get lost_

_And when brotherhood come first_

_Then the line will never be crossed_

 

Six months had come and gone since the death of the one and only consulting detective, yet still it was as though every day drug on without him. John often found himself gazing off into space between patients despite how hard he tried not to. Eventually the secretary strode into his office with her milk chocolate tresses swept up into a stylishly messy bun, having tried to buzz his intercom for the past ten minutes.

“Doctor Watson?” Her voice was soft and tentative, trying not to startle the man from his daze but rather coax him gently.

Stormy blue-grey eyes eventually shifted over toward the familiar woman before a veil seemed to lift from them and John was once more aware of his surroundings. Grunting an acknowledgement of Janette and rubbing his eyes, the older of the two stood without even bothering to look sheepish. He didn’t have the energy for that.

“Why don’t you go home and get some rest? You look like you haven’t slept since...” She trailed off as her mocha eyes suddenly found an interesting tile on the floor to gaze at, quickly thinking of another way to end her statement. “Like you haven’t slept since last weekend.”

Surprisingly enough there came no argument that he was “fine really, just got up too early again” or equally pathetic excuse. Yet when he left the hospital, the doctor didn’t go back to the flat that he had moved into not long after the incident at Saint Bart's. Instead John’s feet carried him to the street and his lips formed a familiar address as the cabbie started driving.

Thankfully Mrs. Hudson was out, so he wouldn’t be disturbed in his reminiscing. The same curtains hung over the windows, dusty as they would have been anyways. Of course the chairs and couch were all in their designated spots, untouched since the blonde had left only four months prior. Everything gave the impression that he was still there, leaving body parts in the microwave or playing a mournful tune upon his violin as the doctor battled nightmares. In that moment memory overtook the present, adding clutter of books, notes and another body into its illusion.

Sherlock hunched over the chemistry equipment at the kitchen table, his ebony shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms so that they would have no chance of being tarnished by the acidic and corrosive substances in the beakers. John didn’t quite understand what the experiment was but he didn’t need to. The violinist was the one conducting it anyways and he most likely would have been exasperated if the shorter man asked for an explanation.

Normally he would have been upset to have all of the chemicals on the kitchen table where they ate at now and then but for some reason John couldn’t find it within him to really mind anymore. Instead the sight of his best friend milling about in the kitchen invoked a rather warm feeling within the man’s chest, something that was both heavy and delightful. It really caught him off guard, both the feeling and the fact that he didn’t mind it one bit. For some unknown reason John thought that the detective’s antics were rather endearing, and the way he scrunched up his nose at an unsatisfying result was kind of adorable. Not to mention the way that those slacks sat upon his flatmate’s arse made it look absolutely wonderf-! Oh no, oh goodness no, he wasn’t going to finish that thought.

Apparently his distress had been vocalized because not a moment later the item of thought was right there in front of the petite doctor, holding a vial of sulphuric acid in one hand as he studied the others features. However it was short-lived as Sherlock found nothing of amusement in the expression and instead strode back to his work, allowing the ex-military man a delightful moment to watch his hips move.

The discovery had John silently sipping his cuppa even as his thoughts screeched to a halt only to focus on anything and everything he had ever thought about Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Ah yes, that was the day that he realized he’d crossed a line. A line between feeling blatant friendship and something deeper, more intimate.

 

_Everything I went through you were standing there by my side_

_And now you gon’ be with me for the last ride_

 

The months blurred together until a year and eight months had passed since that faithful day. John thought that he had moved on quite well, gotten back into working and even met a wonderful woman with whom he intended to spend his life with. Yet it all faded away whenever night fell upon the streets of London, stirring up ghosts of the past that refused to be laid to rest. That night as the doctor lay in bed with the woman he loved, he dreamt of another set of blue eyes that had seemed to know too much from a single glance.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Those had been the words that really kick-started everything to come. Sherlock had known things that John hadn't told anybody and that had somehow appealed to the shorter man to the point that he went to 221B Baker Street the next day to inquire about the flat. From then on his life had never been dull again for Sherlock Holmes was at his side, loyal in his own unconventional ways. Even when all hope had seemed lost and Moriarty had caught the blonde in his web of lies and deceit, the detective was there, though something had changed in him that day.

Sure, when the ex-military man had been suited up with the bomb, he had been terrified but that was an emotion that he'd once learnt to ignore long ago. The entire event went as generally expected until the villainous man had received a phone call and cut their visit short. Sherlock had practically torn at the offending jacket upon his blogger's body and tossed it away before those elegant hands searched for any other injury. In that moment the man who was so often likened to a robot had seemed more human than anyone John could recall knowing. He had been scared, visibly panicked, and small, like a child watching his brother get bullied at school and not being able to help in any way. For the next few weeks the violinist had stuck oddly close to his companion, acting as nonchalant as he could. John found it terribly endearing indeed.

Then there was the case of the demon hound from Baskerville. Once again the supposedly emotionless genius had proven everybody wrong once again, openly shown his human side to the other man. Sherlock Holmes didn't have friends. Oh no, he had something so much better. He had John Watson. Once more he had kept true to his unspoken promise that he would always be at the ashen blonde's side.

Except, the one time that it really counted, he wasn't.

Instead of being at John's side, he was standing atop Saint Bartholomew's Hospital and all the doctor could do was look up. The curly haired man had made the request that his friend stay put, asked if he could do that for him. It was then that he knew exactly what was going to happen, and it did. There was no note, no warning, just a phone call insisting that everything was a trick and that the shorter man had been deceived.

_“Goodbye, John.”_

 

 

_So let the light guide your way, yeah_

_Hold every memory as you go_

 

It seemed as though time stretched on forever. The cell was tossed to the side and then the lanky man took a moment to gaze down at the awaiting cement. In that moment John couldn't help but think that his best friend looked startlingly like an angel about to fall from grace. There was a certain kind of serenity in his posture and, though it very well could have been a trick of his eyes, the oceanic grey-blue eyed man could have sworn that there was a light behind Sherlock that illuminated him in an otherworldly manner.

But then the moment passed and it happened.

Before he could even consciously decide what to say, a scream tore its way from the frozen man's throat, full of agony and betrayal.

“Sherlock!”

He was falling into nothing, long black coat billowing out dramatically as the ground approached, promising to end it all. No man could have moved as fast as John wanted to and so he was forced to watch as the one man he had come to love sharing his life with plummeted. Then it was over. Sherlock Holmes was no more.

 

_It’s been a long day without you, my friend_

_And I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again_

 

The restaurant was fancy and everything he would have hoped for it to be for booking a reservation a month in advance. John had arrived early in hopes that he would have a chance to compose himself a little bit yet he wasn't having any luck. When that failed he instead allowed his weary eyes to close with the intention of just existing, listening to his surroundings and reflecting on Mary Morstan, the woman who had come into his life and accepted him for who he was and who he would become.

At first there were memories of them together, going for coffee in a cozy shop and getting to know eachother. The first time that they had shared a bed, laughing at how clumsy they both were only to relearn how to be with another person. When Mary had agreed to move in with him.

From there the thoughts turned, taking on a note they hadn't in a very long time. Suddenly her eyes looked a rather dull shade of blue. That's all they were really, blue. They weren't a cloudless sky on a rare, sunny, summer day. Not glistening labradorite, with so many different shades within their depths. Nor could they one second look into a person's very being and the next warm and crinkle at the corners in a smile that lit up his day.

Mary also had a long green coat that suited her beautifully yet was too much colour along with her platinum blond hair and red lips. It would have looked so much better in black. Perhaps, if she really wanted colour, a blue scarf could have been added to the mix.

Dammit, John scowled and shook his head in frustration while long blonde eyelashes fluttered open once more. Why couldn't Sherlock’s memory stay in the past, where it belonged? He had mourned the loss of the one man he had truly loved and refused to let it haunt him for the rest of his life. In his moment of distraction he neglected to notice a waiter with a spring in his step and a ridiculous french accent upon his lips approach the table.

 

 

_We’ve come a long way from where we began_

_Oh, I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again_

_When I see you again When I see you again_

 

Everything was going wonderful, except for his awkward stumble over his round-about proposal. The woman across the table seemed to find it all too sweet that he was trying to be romantic though, so John counted that as a win. However, true to all waitstaff, their server chose the absolute worst time to make his appearance with their bottle of wine. Did he not see that they were kind of in the middle of something? Was the bloke daft? John had tried in vain to shoo him away and was just about to turn and drop all “nice-guy” pretenses when the annoyingly tall man said something-apparently about the wine- that would rattle the ex-army doctor's life all over again, accent falling away as a voice like rich velvet took its rightful tone on the last two words.

_“Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers, suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend...”_

**Author's Note:**

> Hello folks! Thanks for the read! This is the first thing I have posted and any kind of feedback is more than welcome.


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